


She's a Pirate

by WingsofaBird



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 14:40:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28601607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingsofaBird/pseuds/WingsofaBird
Summary: Lucy Beckett wants nothing more than to escape her father for good and live the life of a pirate, but circumstances-and the choices of others-always seem to drag her right back to him. Unable to escape his grasp any other way, she makes a choice that changes the course of her life and James Norrington's.
Relationships: James Norrington/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 1





	1. What Has the World Done to You?

Lucy came to slowly, wincing in the blinding sunlight. She blinked her eyes hard several times and brought her fingers to the back of her skull where a dull ache resided. Blood had crusted her hair, and she could feel a nasty bruise forming. As she sat up gingerly, she became aware of the surface beneath her gently swaying, and she realized she was on board a ship. She opened her eyes fully to find herself in spacious and ornate quarters. The sunlight streamed in through several windows on her left to illuminate a massive desk covered in maps and charts, a single bookcase laden with dense-looking tomes, and a few leather-bound trunks of varying sizes clustered around its base.

Her heartbeat spiked as she took in her unfamiliar surroundings that without a doubt belonged to a Royal Navy ship. She had no clue how she'd gotten there or where she was. Last she remembered, she'd been on Isla Cruces with Jack, Elizabeth, Will and Norrington. There had been the chest, the key, the fighting...then Jones's crew had shown up. Norrington had taken the chest and run off with it, she had followed...after that it got less clear.

A knock on the door sounded as she sat there trying to sort through what had happened. "Come in," she said, turning to see who it was.

A young man with a freckled face peeked in. "Sorry to disturb you, Miss Beckett," he said. "But the captain wanted to know as soon as you were awake, so I was just checking to see." His head vanished, and the door clicked shut behind him before she could ask any questions.

Miss Beckett. That confirmed it. This was a Royal Navy ship, and she was likely on her way back to her father. Swinging her legs over the side of her bunk, she stood, the warm wood pleasant under her bare feet. She swayed for a moment as her vision blurred and the pain in the back of her head flared up.

Then another knock-a more direct, assertive one this time-sounded at the door. "Come in," she replied, irritated with the interruption.

A broad-shouldered man in a captain's uniform entered, leaving the door open behind him. The blue sky framed him, and she could hear crashing waves, sighing wind, yelling men from beyond him. As he came closer, the sunlight through the windows found his face, a stern but not unkindly one. His skin was weathered and ruddy from years at sea, and his wig, though neatly bound in a queue, was grey and grizzled. He removed his hat as he stepped towards her, and inclined his head in a bow.

"We've been searching for you for quite some time, Miss Beckett," he said, his voice even and pleasant and colored by a subtle Scottish burr. "Ever since Miss Elizabeth Swann abducted you after escaping her arrest."

Abducted? "Are you returning me to my father?"

"Yes, and he'll be relieved to see you."

I very much doubt that. "Certainly. If I may ask, how did I come to be aboard your ship?"

"Well, that were a story better told by Norrington," he replied. "Seeing as he's the one who rescued you from the pirates."

Rescued? "May I speak with him?"

"Of course, I'll go fetch him. Is there anything we can do to make you more comfortable in the meantime?"

It was so strange to be treated with such deference again, especially when she was still dressed in the wide-legged breeches and caked-on dirt of a pirate. She suddenly felt very out of place in the spotless captain's quarters. "No, thank you," she said, lifting her chin and trying to muster her old imperious bearing.

"Very well," he replied, touching his fingers to his forehead and leaving, the door closing behind him. She took the few moments of solitude to examine her surroundings more closely. They were not nearly as spacious as they had first appeared; the many windows gave it the appearance of being larger. In fact, there was hardly space for the desk, the bookshelf, the bunk, and the trunks. Still, it was a pleasant enough room.

Another knock at the door, this time sloppy and careless. "Come in," she called, turning to face the door once more.

The handle turned, and Norrington entered, just as disheveled and filthy as herself. He shut the door behind him and stood there, his stance relaxed and careless.

"Care to explain all of this?" she asked, fear and anger running like a current under her words.

"I saved your life," Norrington replied. "You're welcome."

"By turning me over to my father?" she hissed.

"By rescuing you from Jones' crew."

"And then turning me over to my father?"

"Yes," he replied, his eyes cold. "He'll gladly recommission me once I give him the heart and return his daughter to him."

"Do you have any idea what he'll do to me? What he'll do to the Caribbean once he has the heart?"

He leaned forward, placing his hands on the desk. "Do you think I care? This is the only way I get my life back."

"You...bastard," she spat. "I risked my life for you on Isla Cruces, and this is how you repay me?"

"I didn't ask you to run after me. I had it all under control."

"I ran after you because I didn't want you to die. I believed in you, I thought you would change." She folded her arms. "Turns out I was wrong."

"I have changed," he spat back. "I see the world clearly now. I always tried to live by a code, and where did that get me? Washed up in Tripoli. Now I'm ready to do whatever it takes to end on the winning side."

"You've fallen far, James Norrington," she replied. "I don't even recognize you anymore."

She watched her words hit, saw the flicker of pain in his eyes, the furrow appear between his brows. For a split second, she saw the old Norrington underneath the sweat and grime. A man who always did what he believed to be the right thing, no matter the cost. And then the moment was gone, his expression flat, cold, and sullen once more.

"I hope you enjoy being reunited with your father," he said, then turned and left, slamming the door behind him.

She drew in a trembling, gasping breath and sank to the mattress, fists clenched around the fabric. How could he do this to me? Returning me to my father after everything we've been through. I never should have trusted him, I never should have believed in him. Tears sprang up in her eyes, but she blinked them away angrily. This is human nature, she reminded herself. To act in their own self-interest. That bastard only cares about himself.

She straightened her spine and lifted her gaze to glare at the space he'd occupied only moments before. I will never descend that far. I will never lose myself like he has.

She stood and set herself the task of examining and cataloguing every detail of the room. She went to the windows first, looking them over for any latches and pressing gently against the panels. Nothing. She'd have to break one if she wanted to escape that way. And that was only a last resort and only if they were near enough to land that she could swim. She went to the bookshelf next and hefted the largest tomes, satisfying herself that they could be used as weapons. Crouching by each trunk, she tried the lid, but only one opened. It was the smallest, its wooden planks worn and faded by time and sea. The lid creaked as she opened it, and inside she found only a spare set of clothing for the captain. She let it fall shut again as she turned to the desk.

It was littered with charts, letters, and maps, and in the corner rested a large, leather-bound book with a quill and inkwell next to it. She cracked it open to find a muster book. Leafing through it, she caught glimpses of captain's logs written in several different hands. Letting the cover fall, she turned her attention to the map. It detailed the Caribbean. She'd seen maps of it before, of course-with a father as power-hungry as her own, it had been impossible to avoid knowledge of the world-but now each location carried a whole new meaning. Isla de Muerta, where she and Elizabeth had nearly died; Tortuga, the squalid den of pirates where she'd been reunited with Jack; Isla Cruces, where James had betrayed and apparently kidnapped her; and Port Royal, where they were headed.

She felt a hollow in the pit of her stomach when she thought about seeing her father again. Publicly, he had claimed that each time she had disappeared, she had been kidnapped, but she knew he didn't believe that. He saw right through her. He knew how much she loved the sea, how much she longed for freedom. And he was determined to crush that in her. To bind her to a life of servitude to his glory. As a daughter, all she was good for was marrying someone useful. Perhaps that's what her father had waiting for her when she arrived. A husband. Or perhaps he planned to have her killed quietly. Or perhaps he would keep her under lock and key until she lost her mind.

But that's not going to happen, because I won't let it. Steeling herself, she continued rifling through the papers on the desk, finding only personal letters and weather charts, nothing of use. She went for the drawers, but they were all locked. She glanced around her room once more to see if she'd missed anything, but to no avail. She had almost no tools at her disposal. I'll have to make a run for it once we arrive.


	2. The Heart

At last, after a three-day journey filled with mind-numbing boredom and nauseating anxiety for Lucy, the Conqueror arrived at her destination. Lucy was escorted out on deck as they approached the harbor, the captain certain she would be thrilled to see how close she was to being reunited with her father.

"From what I've heard-I hope it's not too impertinent of me to say so-but from what I've heard, you've had more than your fair share of bad luck with pirates," Captain Abernathy was saying.

"It's true," she replied, doing her level best to keep her mind occupied with the conversation at hand so it wouldn't wander to wherever her father laid in wait. "I've had dealings with pirates of one kind or another since I was a child." That much was true.

The captain chuckled, his eyes crinkling as he stared across the waves towards Port Royal. "That's more than most men aboard this ship can say," he said. "Most have only seen pirates from a distance. I imagine you could teach them a lesson or two about what they're really like."

"And what is a pirate really like to you?" she asked, intrigued.

"Oh, depends on which one," he replied, glancing over at her. "A great deal of them are the scum of the earth. Naught but drunkards and whoremongers. Some, though, are honorable men. Not many, but some."

She eyed him curiously. "Met any of those honorable ones?"

"Aye, a few. Heard tell of more. Heard there was one who tried to free his cargo of slaves only to have his ship burned along with all of them."

"So you're against the slave trade as well?" she asked, becoming more and more fascinated by this man.

He spat into the churning waves below. "Aye. Filthy thing that it is." Then he glanced over at her again. "But don't tell my masters I said so, they wouldn't take kindly to that." He chuckled again.

"Did you happen to hear the name of the pirate who did that?" she asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Aye," he replied. "If I remember right, twas a man by the name of Jack Sparrow."

"I know the man personally," she said. Then, struck by a sudden candor, she continued, "I was there on the day you speak of."

"Were you now?" he asked, turning to face her. "And what was a bonny lass like you doing on a slave ship?"

She hesitated, unsure whether to tell the truth. Then she sighed. "Can you keep a secret?"

"Well, you're keeping one for me, aren't you?"

She smiled. "True enough." Taking a deep breath, she began. "Growing up, my brother Henry and I were always fascinated by tales of pirates and always bored out of our minds at home. Too many rules, too many restrictions. And the older we got, the more there were. So we decided to run away and become pirates. It made perfect sense at the time, we were only children. I borrowed some of his clothes so I could pass as a boy, and we stowed away on the first ship we saw that wasn't Royal Navy. Of course, it wasn't too long before we were discovered, but it was still too late to turn back. So they took us on as cabin boys of sorts. I remember a man called Bootstrap taking especially good care of us. He said we reminded him of his own son. When we landed in the West Indies, Jack did try to set the slaves free. But by then, Father had worked out what had become of Henry and I, and he had caught up to us." She sighed. "He had the whole crew branded and the ship burned. It took a deal with Davy Jones to raise it from the depths."

"That's quite the tale there, lass," he said. "You've had quite the eventful life."

She nodded absentmindedly, still lost in memories.

Just then, Norrington joined them at the rail. Abernathy nodded a greeting.

"How does it feel to be looking at home soil again?" the captain asked.

"Like going back in time," Norrington replied. "Doesn't it, Miss Beckett?"

Lucy's face was hard as she stared out over the water. "Indeed it does, Master Norrington," she replied, an edge to her words. Like going back to just two weeks ago when I last left this godforsaken place. Her eyes roved the island as it drew ever closer, every hill and structure laden with memories.

The Conqueror weighed anchor at the mouth of the harbor. Abernathy turned to face Lucy. "I suppose this is goodbye, Miss Beckett. It's been a pleasure." He doffed his hat, turned to shake Norrington's hand, then waved them on to the rowboat that waited to take them ashore.

Lucy settled into the boat opposite Norrington, whose mouth was set in an awful smirk. Two of the sailors clambered in with them, and they were lowered to the waves. Lucy trailed her fingers in the clear blue water, knowing it might well be some time before she felt the sea against her skin again. Tears gathered in her eyes at the thought, and she blinked them away impatiently. She would not give Norrington or her father the satisfaction of knowing how much this all hurt.

All too soon, their little boat knocked up against the dock, and Lucy found herself being helped out. Norrington followed her onto the dock, and then they both turned to look inland to where a carriage bearing her father's crest awaited them. Norrington strode ahead, and Lucy followed, every step laden with dread. She looked around for any escape, but the island was far too small to hide her from her father for long, and she had no way off of it. Not yet, anyway. So she stepped into the carriage with all the composure in the world, as though she were still the lady she had been when she had first come to Port Royal a year before. There would be time to escape her father later.

She and Norrington spent the journey in uncomfortable silence. Her father had sent a manservant to accompany them in addition to the driver and footman, and he shared the small cabin with them. At last, they slowed to a stop as they approached the front gate of her father's mansion. Lucy sighed as she stepped out, assisted by the footman. She had hoped she'd left this place behind her forever.

Norrington offered his arm to her. "It's only proper," he said, and when he glanced over at her, she saw a glimpse of the old Norrington in his eyes. The same dignified, noble man she had first seen standing at the top of a gangplank of the Dauntless, waiting to take her best friend away. She'd been so in awe of him then. Now he was only a broken shell, tormented by his demons.

Pursing her lips and not looking at him, she took his arm, her fingers digging into his arm, hoping vainly it might hurt. They continued down the path to the front door like that, the manservant following behind as the driver and footman whisked the carriage away.

As he opened the door for them, the manservant said, "If you'll just wait here in the foyer, I'll go tell the master you've arrived."

Lucy dropped Norrington's arm the moment he turned his back to head up the stairs. She looked up at him, eyes burning. "You'll regret this, James Norrington."

"I very much doubt that," he replied in his measured tone, looking down at her with a mocking smile.

The manservant came down the stairs again. "The master will see you now."

They followed him up the staircase and down a short hallway. The manservant opened the last door on the left and ushered them inside, where they found both Beckett and Mercer. Lucy's heart thumped hard as her gaze briefly met her father's before he looked away dismissively.

"I see you've returned my wayward daughter to me," he said to Norrington. "As well as these," he continued, holding up the letters of marque.

"I took the liberty of filling in my name," Norrington replied.

Beckett threw the letters of marque onto his desk and motioned Norrington forward. Lucy retreated until her back was against the window, folding her arms. She felt a little sick.

"If you intend to claim these, then you must have something to trade," Beckett said as Norrington stepped forward. "Aside from my daughter." Lucy clenched her jaw and looked out the windows to her right, the sunlight so bright it hurt. "Do you have the compass?" he asked in a quieter voice.

"Better," Norrington replied. Lucy could hear the smirk in his voice. Then he hefted a dirty brown sack onto Beckett's desk. "The heart of Davy Jones." Even Lucy couldn't help but look over. It pulsed inside the sack with a life of its own. She was seized with a sudden desire to snatch it from her father's desk and crush it, but she hung back.

"I believe you have earned your commission back," Beckett said. "Admiral Norrington."

Lucy's eyes flicked up to her father's satisfied face, then over to Norrington, whose shoulders were squared as he accepted the new title. So this is how treachery is rewarded. With a promotion.

"Now, if you'll excuse me," Beckett said. "I have some business to attend to with my daughter. Mercer will see to it that you receive everything you need." He waved them off, leaving father and daughter alone as Mercer shut the door behind them.

"Welcome back," Beckett said coolly.

"Hello, Father," she replied, lifting her chin high and staring into his icy blue eyes. She had never been more grateful than she was in that moment that she had inherited her mother's brown eyes.

"I see by your clothing and your attitude that your allegiances remain unchanged," he said. "Perhaps we can remedy that while you're here. I can't have you playing pretend any longer. You're no longer a child."

"You're the one playing pretend, Father, thinking you can rule the world," she spat.

He only answered with a cold smile. "We shall see."

He stood and paced evenly around his desk to her, coming to stand shoulder to shoulder. She stiffened. "If you run off again, or even attempt to, I will have Governor Swann executed, do you understand?"

Her throat closed. She could only nod.

"Good." He stepped back and waved her out. "Now go clean yourself and put on some fresh clothes."

Brushing past him, she tore the door open and stalked out of his study. Her maidservant stood waiting outside, a young, fresh-faced woman named Grace.

"I'm glad to see you back, miss, all safe and sound," she said, ushering Lucy down the hall. "It must have been a trying time for you."

Lucy smiled wanly, her mind and heart far away in the heart of the Caribbean aboard the Pearl. "I've seen worse times," she replied.


	3. Bars

"I will leave you to bathe yourself." The door shut behind Mercer.

Norrington stared down at the bathwater, the surface gently rippling and splashing against the sides. The last time he'd truly bathed was...far too long ago. Ever since he had set foot onto the Conqueror, he had been painfully aware of the filth that caked his skin and the stench of sweat and seawater that permeated his clothing. How far I've fallen.

Determined to leave this version of himself behind forever, he tore his mud-caked shoulder belt off over his head and let it fall to the floor. The buckle struck the stone with a satisfying clatter. He yanked off his boots, then his coat, his vest, his trousers, and his shirt. At last, he stood there naked, the filthy reminders of his dishonored self lying in a heap at his feet. He gazed down at himself, disgust rising in his throat at the mud, sweat, and salt that still caked his skin.

He set one foot into the bath, then the other, the water warm and soothing against his skin. Slowly, he lowered himself in, knees just poking out of the water. He took a deep breath and allowed his shoulders to fall inch by inch, releasing tension he had carried for months.

His eyes closed, and a memory flared through his mind's eye: The Pearl sailing into an approaching bank of clouds, black sails bellying in the gale. His eyes flew open, and he snatched the soap, his sudden movement sloshing water over the sides. He set to scrubbing his arms, brow set in a scowl, determined to banish that time from his memory. Then another image flashed through: the terrified eyes of his men looking to him for guidance just before he sent them to their deaths. His eyes squeezed shut, fingernails digging into the soap. Fiercely, he scrubbed at his chest.

Yet the memories piled on anyway, thick and fast as the rain of a summer monsoon. The black, roiling clouds; the violent, crashing waves; the howling, murderous gale. Men swept overboard by the thundering waves. The Pearl vanishing into the distance. His own ship shuddering and splintering under the pressure. Plummeting into the ice-cold waves. Swallowing seawater as he clung to a fragment of driftwood. Waking up, skin desiccated and eyes bleary with salt. And the drinking, the endless drinking, unable to look life in the eye. The senseless fighting, the scorn, the laughter. And at the end of it all, Elizabeth's gaze. Compassionate, sad, and, worst of all, pitying.

A sob tore from his throat, an ugly, hoarse sound. He dashed the soap against the side of the basin, splashing more water off the side. Trembling hands rose to cover his face as another sob wracked his body, silent this time. A great, shuddering breath. And a tear slipped from his chin, a tiny drop of clear water into the tepid, filthy bath. His knees curled into his chest, and he rested his forehead on them, shoulders shaking.

Then a knock, sudden and sharp, struck the door. "Sir?" a young-sounding voice spoke from outside.

Norrington straightened, splashing water over his face to hide the tears, and, clearing his throat, said, "Enter."

The doorknob turned, and a freckled face, vaguely familiar, inserted itself. "I've brought fresh clothes for you, sir," he said, bringing the rest of himself inside, along with a large bundle. "As well as a towel, some lather, and a razor."

"Set them down, if you please," Norrington said, gesturing at the floor. "And take my old clothes with you."

The boy obeyed, and, as he straightened, he asked, "What shall I do with them, sir?"

Norrington gazed at the filthy pile of clothing he had just shed, nostrils flaring in disgust. "Have them burned," he replied.

The boy bowed his head and left without another word.

Retrieving the soap, Norrington returned to scrubbing with a vengeance, scrubbing until his skin was raw and his scalp tingling. He dunked his head under, then resurfaced, clean at last. He stood and stepped out of the basin, dripping water everywhere, and toweled off. As he looked down at himself, he could identify which scars had come from his time in the Navy and which he had earned in the past year. His knuckles had suffered a great deal in that year. He scowled at the scars, wishing he could scrub those away, too, worthless reminders that they were.

He dressed quickly, doing his best to make himself feel that the stockings and breeches and cravat all felt natural and normal rather than unfamiliar and restrictive. Then he tackled his scruff, hacking it off of his face and into the basin. He held the mirror up to survey his work, turning his head this way and that. And he found himself looking very nearly just as he had over a year ago when he had departed Port Royal on the hunt for the Pearl. His skin a little browner, yes, his wrinkles a little more pronounced, perhaps, his eyes more weary of the world, certainly, but altogether, his appearance was unchanged. How strange it felt to stare at the same man while being so changed on the inside.

: :

Lucy stepped out of the bath room, wearing a nightgown with her boys' clothes tucked under her arm, to find Grace waiting for her.

"I hope your bath was pleasant, miss," Grace said with a little bob of her head. "I'll take those." She reached for the bundle under Lucy's arm.

Lucy pulled away, her hazel eyes sparking dangerously.

"The master said to be sure I took them from you," Grace said desperately, arm still outstretched.

"Then tell him you did and that you had them burned," Lucy replied, jaw clenched. Grace's eyes wavered, falling to the bundle of clothes, then looking back up at Lucy's forbidding expression. "If you try to take them by force, you won't succeed."

Grace's eyes dropped, and she drew her arm back. "Very well, miss. If you'll follow me to your room." She brushed past Lucy to head down the hallway. Lucy followed, her bundle of clothes tucked tightly against her body. Grace opened the door to her bedroom and continued inside, opening the curtains wide to allow the sunlight in. The sunlight streamed into the room in shafts, splintered by the iron grate whose unyielding frame stood outside the window.

Bars. He's had bars installed. Lucy's heart plummeted. Slender fingers reached to the inside of her right wrist to brush the brand that puckered there. An image flashed through her mind. Standing at the end of a long row of pirates, clutching her brother's hand, desperately hoping their father wouldn't recognize them. Watching the soldier with the red-hot brand make his way down the line, starting with Jack. Hearing the groans of pain as the brand met flesh. Smelling the acrid scent of burning flesh.

She stood there, rooted to the spot, her toes just outside the threshold. Her pounding heart screamed at her to run, to turn and fly down the stairs and out the door and down to the quay. She clutched her bundle of clothes and took a step back, her gaze fastened on the window.

"Miss, are you all right?" Grace asked, stepping closer.

Lucy's eyes dropped to Grace's face. Their eyes locked for a split second. And Lucy whirled around and took off at a dead sprint. Hearing Grace call after her from behind, she hurled herself down the stairs three at a time, her bare feet thudding on the thick carpet. She hit the bottom, one arm flailing to catch her balance, and skidded around to the left. She burst into the kitchen, her breath heaving desperately in her chest and her heart fluttering like a caged bird. She dodged and weaved through the servants, her nostrils just catching a whiff of roasting meat as the servants shouted and jostled her. The cook seized her arm from the side, bringing her up short. Lucy writhed desperately, leveraging her whole body weight to escape his grip, but he held fast.

"Where are you off to in such a hurry, miss?"

She yanked her arm towards her and bit down hard on the cook's hand. He cried out and his hand opened up. She tore her arm from his grip and threw herself towards the door, heaving it open and darting through. The servants tumbled outside after her, confused more than anything, as she sprinted across the well-manicured lawn, vaulting the bushes as though wings had sprouted from her heels. She ran straight for the wrought iron fence, fists pumping and heart swelling. She took a flying leap and seized the fence with one hand, her toes finding purchase below, bundle of clothes still tucked safely under one arm. Her reaching fingers brushed the spike at the top, her entire body straining upwards. Then she heard a cry from behind, and as her head whipped around, rough hands seized her arms and dragged her from the fence.

"No! No!" she screamed hoarsely, writhing in their grip, but they held fast. Her wild eyes caught glimpses of soldier's uniforms and powdered wigs as she fought. "Let me go!" She slammed her elbow into the side of the soldier on her right, and his grip loosened. She ripped her arm away and used her body weight to pull free of the other soldier. Stumbling, she threw herself towards the fence once more, fingers clutching at the metal. One of the soldiers, cursing under his breath, struck the back of her head with the butt of his rifle. Her form went limp, her forehead striking the fence as she slumped.

"Lord Beckett won't be pleased," the second soldier said, joining his companion by her body.

The other soldier huffed. "I wouldn't be so sure about that," he said. "I heard he was the one who had her branded."

"Never knew she was so vicious," the second soldier commented as they lifted her body from the ground. "Do you think she's gone mad?"

The first soldier grunted. "Perhaps that's why Lord Beckett wants her locked up so badly."

"Perhaps so."


	4. No Matter What

Lucy's eyelids fluttered open, and she swallowed, finding her throat sandpaper-dry. She sat up, blinking groggily, and swung her legs over the side of the bed. A wave of pain washed through her skull, and she winced, her fingers probing the back of her head to find a massive goose egg under her hair. At least it's not bleeding this time. With a sigh, she began to stand, but was brought up short by a tugging at her wrist. She sat back down and looked over at her left wrist to find an iron shackle around it, an iron shackle linked to a chain linked to another shackle that was fastened around the bedpost. She tugged against it and found it quite secure.

Panic rose in her chest, and she twisted her arm around, yanking harder and harder at the chain, hardly caring that the rattling of the chain against the bedpost was causing a racket. She folded up her hand as narrow as she could make it and tried to shove the shackle over it, making it to the spot just below her thumb joint before getting it stuck. She wormed her hand back out and yanked at the chain again, her breath harsh and shallow in her throat.

It was at that moment that Grace reentered the room. Lucy's head snapped up, her eyes wild as their gazes locked.

"Pleased to see you're awake," Grace said with a forced smile, coming over to the bed. "I'm sure your head is aching, miss, why don't you lie back down?"

"What is this, Grace?" Lucy asked, holding her fist up as high as she could.

Grace's eyes dropped, and she bowed her head. "The master insisted," she said.

Lucy huffed, trying to hide her terror behind irritation. "How am I meant to relieve myself? To bathe?"

Grace shrugged. "There ought to be enough slack to allow you to use the chamber pot, miss. As for bathing, if you're good, the master said he might remove it before the need becomes too urgent."

"If I'm good?" Lucy asked, an edge to her tone. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"If you do what the master says and if you don't try to escape again."

Absently, Lucy worried the chain, passing the links between her fingers one by one. "Has he told you what he wants with me?"

"No, miss."

"Of course not." Lucy sighed, forcing herself to calm down and think rationally. "Since I'm to be kept prisoner here for an undetermined, but presumably lengthy, amount of time, would you be so kind as to fetch me a book to read so I don't lose my sanity entirely?"

Grace avoided her eyes. "The master said I wasn't to bring you anything of the kind."

"Very well," Lucy replied, hoping the quaver in her voice wasn't audible. "Then parchment and a quill, perhaps?"

Grace shook her head.

"Is there anything you're permitted to bring me?"

After a moment's hesitation, Grace shook her head again. "The master was very strict about that."

Lucy rolled her eyes up to the ceiling, fighting the fluttering, pounding panic in her chest. Then she swallowed, suddenly reminded of how parched she was. "A glass of water, then. Surely he hasn't forbidden that."

Grace's eyes rose unwillingly to Lucy's, wide with pity. "He said I'm not to bring you anything, miss."

Dumbfounded, Lucy searched Grace's gaze, unwilling to believe it. "He means to starve me out," she gasped, her voice barely above a hoarse whisper.

"Please, miss, just do as he says," Grace pleaded, taking Lucy's free hand in hers. "He's promised to let you go free if you do."

Lucy drew her hand out of Grace's and fixed her with her bitter gaze. "My father will never let me go free, no matter what he says." She turned her back on Grace and flopped down on the bed, her face towards the wall. "It does not matter what he does to me, I won't let him win."

: :

Another knock sounded at the door, just as sharp and precise as the first one. "Enter," Norrington said through the towel he was using to pat the last of the lather from his face. The door opened, and Norrington turned to see the same young, freckled boy from earlier.

"I'm to show you to your new quarters as soon as you're finished," he said, eyes shining with curiosity in spite of himself.

Draping the towel over the side of the basin, Norrington nodded. "Very well," he said, straightening to his full height and clasping his hands behind his back. He hoped he looked the part of a reinstated and recently promoted Admiral, because he certainly didn't feel it. He felt like he was nothing more than a troublesome young boy playing dress-up in his father's uniform.

Resolutely brushing those thoughts away, he returned his attention to the young man before him. "What is your name?"

"Master Dillon, sir," the boy replied, snapping to attention. "I've been assigned to be your aide."

"Very good, Master Dillon," Norrington said, the boy's deferential attitude restoring a fragment of his self-respect. "Lead the way."

The two headed out of the washroom and into the hallway that stretched along the southern wall of the fort. Dillon made a sharp left, and Norrington followed, wondering which of the officer's suites had been assigned to him. Dillon led him up a set of stairs and then out into the colonnade that neighboured the terrace. Norrington glanced out over the cobblestones, an image flashing through his mind of Elizabeth standing at Turner's side to defend Sparrow from him. He recalled the very moment when he realized she would never be his, when he realized she could never look at him the way she looked at Turner. His brows drew together as the memories surfaced, and he forcibly swallowed them back, snapping his head away from the terrace to face forward.

Oblivious to his master's distress, Dillon continued on past the terrace and up another set of stairs. Norrington paused for just a moment, glancing into the courtyard that stood opposite the terrace. He could almost hear the regimented pounding of the drums, the shrill music of the piccolos, the heavy stamp of the soldiers from the day he'd been promoted. The corners of his mouth lifted slightly as he recalled the scene, another fragment of his self-respect returning to bolster his confidence. He turned crisply away from the courtyard and followed the boy up the second flight of stairs.

They came out onto a walkway that encircled the courtyard from above. Dillon produced a key from his pocket and handed it over to Norrington with a little bow. "It's the second door on the left, sir, if you'd like to do the honors."

Norrington inclined his head in response and took the lead, his boots scuffing against the cobblestones as he came to a halt opposite the heavy wooden door. One hand tucked neatly behind his back-already he had begun to adopt some of his old mannerisms-he inserted the key into the lock and turned it, feeling metal grate on metal.

With a firm twist to the doorknob, the door swung into the room, and Norrington stepped into his new quarters. The wooden floor was covered in a finely woven blue-and-ivory rug that silenced his boots as he stepped onto it. A large desk, utilitarian but well-made, stood opposite him, below a tiny window set high in the wall, no larger than a porthole. The light of the setting sun glowed beyond it, providing the room with a warm, orange quality.

Norrington nodded in approval as he stepped forward to examine the space further. Off to his left lay another door, which he opened to find a small, spare room with only a neatly made bed with an empty chest lying at its foot.

"Is it to your liking, sir?" Dillon asked, hanging about near the doorway, eyes large as he imagined having that much space all to himself.

"Quite so, Master Dillon," Norrington responded, shutting the bedroom door behind him and turning to face the young man.

"Do you have any personal effects you'd like me to fetch for you, sir?"

"No, Master Dillon, thank you," he replied, a testy edge to his voice that he instantly regretted. He'd need to do better at keeping himself in check. Far too much of his discipline had wasted away in the last year. Enforcing a calmer tone, he added, "You are dismissed."

"Thank you, sir," the boy replied, then with a bow, he was gone, drawing the heavy door shut behind him.

Norrington's eyes traveled over his new office once more. It all felt so surreal. Only that morning, he had still been a disgraced commodore-turned-pirate, without a home and without a purpose. He had already come so far. Thanks to Miss Beckett and Davy Jones, he had regained his standing and the esteem of his betters. And this time, he was resolved to keep it. He couldn't lose himself like that ever again. No matter what.


	5. A New Agreement

As the men cleared out of Tia Dalma's hut, led by Barbossa, Elizabeth hung back. Tia Dalma had already disappeared into the back room, humming softly to herself.

"Tia Dalma?" Elizabeth asked as she approached the beaded curtain.

The humming stopped. "Hm?" The soothsayer reappeared, her slender arm pushing the strings of beads aside.

"If you could bring Barbossa back, and if we can bring Jack back, what of others who have died?"

"Ah," Tia Dalma replied. "And who might you be wanting to bring back?"

Elizabeth's gaze dropped, and she blinked back tears. "I lost two friends on Isla Cruces," she replied. "They died to allow us a chance to escape."

Tia Dalma cocked her head, a slow smile spreading over her black-smudged lips. "Are you certain?"

"Of what?"

Tia Dalma sauntered past Elizabeth, the beads clinking against one another as the curtain fell shut. "That these two friends are dead." She fixed her with her penetrating gaze.

Elizabeth's brow furrowed. "I don't see how they could have survived," she replied. "They drew off the whole of Jones' crew."

Tia Dalma's smile broadened, and her eyebrow arched. "Perhaps they are smarter than you think," she replied. "Now go. The others are waiting."

"Tia-"

"Your friends are closer than you think." Tia Dalma turned her back on Elizabeth and walked towards the back room, saying, "You will meet again." She disappeared beyond the bead curtain once more, humming the same tune that she had been earlier, and Elizabeth was left with only the clinking of the beads for company.

Frowning, she made her way out of the hut to where the rest were waiting on the boat and settled herself at the bow next to Will. He reached over to take her hand, and she allowed him to, but she took no comfort in it. Will didn't know what she was, what she had done. He could never know. But if James and Lucy had somehow survived...she hardly dared to allow herself to hope. Tia Dalma's words could mean anything. But she promised herself that, once they had rescued Jack from the locker, she would find out what had become of them, even if she had to do it alone. They deserved that much, at least.

: :

Lucy stared fixedly at the wallpaper, white with blue flowers strewn across it, her mind far away with the crew of the Pearl. She wondered where they were, if they had escaped the Kraken, if they would ever work out what had become of her. Elizabeth had come for her before, when her father had locked her up after the wedding fell through, but there was little hope of rescue now, and even less hope of escape. Absentmindedly, she twisted the shackle around her wrist, the iron already beginning to rub her skin raw.

She heard the doorknob turn behind her, and she stiffened slightly, then shut her eyes and feigned the deeper, slower breathing of sleep. Her heart pounding in her throat, she heard the door swing open, then swing closed again, clicking shut.

"We had an agreement, Lucy," her father said quietly. "You know the consequence for your disobedience."

Her eyelids flew open. Governor Swann. She sat up and whirled to face her father, her heart pounding with desperation, and her head swimming. "No, you can't. You can't kill him." Her wide eyes searched his for any sign of compassion, and found none.

"You knew the terms of our agreement."

"He doesn't deserve it, he doesn't deserve to die. I tried to escape, punish me."

He leaned in closer. "I am."

Tears sprung up in her eyes, and she swallowed them back, her parched throat reminding her of just how he was punishing her. "Father…" but she could find no more words to say, nothing that would change his mind. "Please."

The corner of his mouth lifted. "Convince me."

"What?"

"Convince me that it is in my best interests to let Governor Swann live."

Her eyes fell from his, searching for anything that might work, fighting to keep her panic under control. Then her gaze locked with his, eyes hard with determination. "You need him, you need his influence as governor," she said.

He straightened, affecting a disinterested expression. "Not for much longer. If you truly want him to live, you'll have to do better than that."

She felt her chest tightening, her breath growing shallow as her desperation threatened to overtake her. She couldn't let her best friend's father die because of her mistake. There had to be something she could offer, something her father wanted from her. But her thoughts were scattered, directionless. All she could think about was Elizabeth's face when she learned of her father's death.

"Very well," Beckett said, turning away from her. "I shall give the order."

"No, wait!" The hoarse cry tore from her lips, and he half-turned back, his lidded, imperious gaze coming to rest on his daughter's terror-stricken face. Her eyes flicked back and forth, her hand pulled agitatedly at the shackle. She was close, so close to giving him what he wanted. All she needed was one more push.

"Yes?"

Her wide-eyed gaze seemed almost to pass through him as she said, "What do you want from me?" Her voice was empty and flat.

"Your obedience," he replied, sensing his victory.

Her eyebrows snapped together, her eyes flicked up to his, a spark of defiance lighting in them. Their gazes locked as she struggled. Either her father won or Governor Swann would die. And then he wins anyway. Her head fell as the utter hopelessness of her situation sunk in, her gaze dropping to the hand that rested in her lap. "I'll do anything," she murmured softly, her voice cracked and broken. Her eyes rose to his again, pleading and tear-filled. "Just tell me what you want from me."

The corner of his mouth lifted once more, and he turned to fully face her. "That's more like it," he said. "It seems we have a new agreement." He leaned in close. "Let's hope you uphold your end of it this time."

And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

She drew in a great, shuddering gasp and slumped, her head falling into her hand. Her father always knew exactly what to say, exactly which pressure points to manipulate, and she had played directly into his hands. She couldn't escape or even defy her father without Governor Swann's blood on her hands, and the longer she remained her father's captive, the weaker she would become. What could he possibly want with her that was worth threatening and starving her into submission like this? Information? Acting as his double agent? Serving as bait to lure the pirates to him? She could only guess. Perhaps he only wanted her out of his way, unable to disgrace him any further.

Her eyes rose to the ceiling, and she threw up a prayer to a God she wasn't certain was listening. I suppose it's too much to ask that the Pearl comes to rescue me, but whatever happens, just don't let him win.


	6. Grace

"It seems we have a new agreement. Let's hope you uphold your end of it this time." Beckett swept out of the room, shutting the door firmly behind him. Grace snapped to attention as he walked past, but he didn't even glance at her. She watched him go, his back ramrod-straight, and he disappeared into his office. She waited for him to re-emerge, to tell her to bring Miss Lucy food and water, but the door remained shut. She knew they'd reached an agreement-she'd overheard everything-so why wasn't he letting up? He's likely just forgotten, she told herself, settling into a chair outside the door and busying herself with her knitting.

She sat in that chair all day, waiting for Beckett to come and tell her Miss Lucy's punishment was over. Her heart leapt every time he came out of his office, but he never once gave her a second glance. As she watched him retreat to his office for the fourth time, her dawning realization was confirmed: He wasn't going to give the order.

She stood, laying her knitting down on the chair, and crept to Lucy's door, breathlessly watching the master's office. She turned the knob, the click almost deafening, and opened it a crack, just enough to peek inside. Lucy lay with her back to the door, but Grace could tell by the slump of her shoulders and the slow, even rise and fall of her side that she was asleep. Her arm was awkwardly twisted by the shackle, and Grace could see where it had rubbed her wrist raw.

She eased out of the room, closing the door softly, and stood there for a moment, forehead against the wood, gathering herself. She didn't know if the master was prepared to let Lucy starve to death, but she wouldn't put it past him for a moment. He was the coldest, most ruthless man she'd ever met. She couldn't wait around for him to decide to be merciful. No, it was up to her.

Taking a deep breath, she straightened, nodded crisply to herself, and smoothed her apron. She turned on her heel and headed down the stairs to the kitchens, her heart pounding. She'd never disobeyed a direct order before. But then again, she'd never received a direct order like this one. With a sweet smile to the cook, she made off with one of yesterday's rolls and a glass of water. Shoving the roll in her apron pocket, she hurried back up the stairs. Her heart was in her mouth as she eased Lucy's door open again, her eyes fixed on Beckett's office door. She slipped inside and shut the door again behind her, her breaths shaky and uneven.

Lucy stirred awake as Grace came to her bed, taking the roll from her pocket. She looked over her shoulder at Grace, and her tired eyes opened wide when she saw the roll and the water. She sat up in a rush and snatched the roll from her, devouring it in one bite. As she reached for the water, they both heard footsteps out in the hall. Grace's heart stopped cold as she turned to see the door burst open to admit Master Beckett and Mister Mercer. Lucy grabbed the glass from her and started gulping the water down.

Cold fury contorting his features, Beckett strode forward and snatched the glass from her, dashing it against the wall. The glass shattered, and the water spilled all over the wall and all over Lucy. She glared up at him, chest heaving, his face white with fury. Then he struck her across the face, backhanded. Gasping, she held her cheek with her free hand and looked up at him, fear apparent in her gaze in spite of herself. With a great effort, Beckett smoothed himself over, straightening his waistcoat and clearing his throat. He jerked his chin at Mercer, who grabbed Grace by the arm, eliciting a strangled cry of terror from her.

"Don't hurt her!" Lucy cried, standing and lurching forward, only to be brought up short by her shackle.

Her father eyed her with a coldness that could have been mistaken for indifference if it weren't for the burning intensity that lay beneath it. "I will see that she learns her lesson."

A sob escaped Grace's throat as Mercer roughly shoved her out of the room. Beckett's gaze lingered a moment longer on his daughter before he, too, turned and left. She heard the key grind in the lock behind him, and she collapsed to the soaked floor, her breath coming in trembling gasps. Grace's sobs vanished with the slam of a door down the hall. Lucy yanked at her chain blindly as tears clawed at her throat and filled her eyes.

She heard a sharp cry, and then silence. Oh, God, please no. He can't-he wouldn't. Not her. She doesn't deserve this. A sob heaved through her, but she was too dried out and weak to cry. Her head swam, and she blinked hard to clear it. She felt so cold, like the chill emanated from her bones instead of the air around her. And so, so tired.

She snapped awake to hear the lock grinding and the door creaking open. She winced as she raised her head. It was dark, watery moonlight from the window providing the only illumination. Her legs, still folded underneath her from where she'd crumpled to the floor, had totally lost feeling. Moaning softly, she shifted to sit against the bed, her left hand dangling from its chain. She shook her hair out of her face and looked up to see her father standing above her, his shadowed face impassive.

"You look pathetic," he said without emotion.

She scoffed. "Maybe I wouldn't look so pathetic if you'd let me eat something."

"I think not," he replied coldly. He leaned over and whispered in her ear, "You're much easier to manage this way."

A chill shivered up her spine. She glared at him as he straightened, her eyes glassy and red-rimmed. "I gave you my word that I'd do whatever you asked," she said, her voice raspy.

"That doesn't mean you won't try anything," he said, looking imperiously down at her. "No, I need you docile."

"Just tell me what you want, Father," she said, her gaze fixed numbly on the still-damp carpet before her. "I'm tired of waiting for the other boot to drop."

He smiled; a tiny, cold thing. "You'll see soon enough."

: :

Norrington sat bent over his desk, massaging his tired eyes. The lantern in front of him sputtered, the pool of light that it cast over the fort's logbooks growing ever smaller. He'd been studying them for hours, catching up on everything he'd missed while he'd been gone, and they weren't made for light reading. He stood, rubbing his face, and stretched with a yawn. Then a knock stopped him short. Sighing heavily, he called out, "Who is it?"

"It's me, sir, Dillon."

"Shouldn't you be in bed, Master Dillon?" Norrington asked with a touch of impatience.

"Yes, sir, but there's a girl here to see you."

"A girl?" Elizabeth flashed through his mind, but he shoved the thought away, knowing full well that was impossible. "Who?"

"She says her name's Grace," Dillon replied. "And that she works for Lord Beckett."

Norrington's brows drew together, all traces of exhaustion vanishing as he processed that. "Show her in," he said after a moment.

He walked around his desk to face the door as it swung open, clasping his hands behind his back and hoping he didn't look too disheveled. A slight girl, more than likely still in her teens, entered cautiously. She stopped just inside the doorway, her form still in shadow, eyeing him with trepidation.

"Well?" he said, wondering what one of Beckett's servants could possibly want with him at this time of night. "Have you come with a message from Lord Beckett?"

She shook her head. "He doesn't know I've come."

"Then what do you want with me?"

"I've come to ask your help, sir," she said, lifting her chin. The moonlight fell onto her face, and Norrington's eyes widened slightly as he took in the dark bruising that marred her otherwise smooth complexion.

"If you've come for protection from him, I'm afraid I can't help you," he said, turning away from her.

"I'm not here for myself," she replied. "I'm here for Lucy." He looked over at her, his expression as intense as it was unreadable, but said nothing. Mustering her courage, her slender fingers worrying her apron, she pressed on, a steely edge to her trembling voice. "You sold her to her father, and now she's paying the price."

Norrington's jaw worked for a few moments, his eyes wild, before he mastered himself. Smoothing the flash of unbidden rage away, he turned his back on her. "I did what I had to do."

"And now Lord Beckett's starving her to death!" she cried, her throat tight with unshed tears. His back stiffened. "He won't let anyone give her food or water, and it's been days. I tried, and I got beaten and dismissed for my trouble."

"There is nothing I can do for her," Norrington said, the coldness in his voice surprising him.

"Yes, there is!" She stepped forward, coming around to stand in front of him. "Ask Lord Beckett for her hand, he'll listen to you."

Slowly, he raised his eyes to her, his gaze incredulous. "What?"

She took a couple more steps forward, staring him down. "Ask for her hand in marriage."

He searched her eyes for any sign that she was in jest. "You're not serious."

"I am. Someone has to get her out of there," she said, her eyes burning with urgency. "Lord Beckett wants her married and off of his hands, he said as much to me himself. Who better than you? There are already rumours about you two and what happened while-"

"What rumours?" Norrington asked, his brows set low over his eyes.

"That she's with child, your child, and her father's keeping her locked up to hide it. If you marry her, no one will have any right to reproach you."

Norrington's eyes flicked back and forth, something akin to panic rising in his chest. He couldn't escape it, any of it. More than anything, he wanted to leave it behind, forget any of it ever happened. He was a fool to think that he could ever do that. His reputation would forever be marred by the mistakes he'd made.

"Please, sir," Grace whispered, tears filling her eyes. "You have to save her."

"Leave," he hissed.

"Sir-"

"Leave!" he thundered.

She startled back, her eyes wide with terror. Dillon bustled in and took her by the arm. "Come on, miss," he said to her, tugging at her gently. She followed him to the doorway, then stopped cold, looking back at Norrington.

"Everyone says you used to be a good, honorable man," she said, her voice shaking. "I don't know what became of him, but he's not the man I see before me." Dillon tugged urgently at her arm, his eyes wild with fear. She allowed him to usher her out, her chest heaving with emotion. He shut the door behind them, then turned on her.

"Are you mad?" he whispered.

She gave a humourless laugh. "Perhaps," she replied. "But I'll do whatever it takes to save her from him."


End file.
